A Bad Day
by Moxy666
Summary: Another day at the tavern.


After the busy day, the tavern named The Bloated Ogre, filled with the sounds of raucous laughter and patrons enjoying each others company.

Human and elfkin alike, gathered here to waste another winters night deep in their cups. The tavern was nestled deep within a sordid territory, slap dab in the rough area of the town of Longsaddle. It had the distinction of also being a way post for travelers or caravan merchants. Usually the more wealthy merchants staved off the cold with a few pints,while retiring to a luxury suite. Despite the location, this tavern was for the ones with overflowing coin.

Markkros Feltmoor, was the distinguished owner of The Bloated Ogre, and a no nonsense half ogre as well. His now deceased wife was the reason for the name of the establishment. After she died from a horrible disease, he named the place after her. Makkros was not as hardened as his exterior came across, especially to his bar wenches he hired. Many of which held the older creature in high esteem, and worked hard for the coin.

Snow fell down outside in a torrent of winds from the northern climes. The same wind blew in a lone hooded form and ushered them into

the warmth of the hearth.

The figure was clad in black from head to toe. A silver light gleaming off of the shaded visitor. The cloak was soon tossed aside, revealing a lone human female. The black cloak giving way to a shiny sword in her hand. A sword now she sheathed as she confidently entered.

Makkros was the first to acknowledge the woman.

"Deslym left an hour ago," he announced, coolly regarding the female. "Already took a room."

The woman sidled up to the bar with casual indifference. Makkros was no fool. He knew that that casual flair held a dangerous edge.

She nodded. "If only he was more fond of his promises, as much as he is of his ale." She demurred.

"In any event, I think I'll make myself home. I'll take your finest brew, master Makkros. "

Nodding in agreement, the half ogre poured the beverage. He knew she spoke true. The warrior Delan had only got into the tavern a few hours ago, and In that time has imbibed several ales then stumbled into his room. He had always figured the fighter to be strong, but not one who tested their constitutional fortitude. Especially now that he had made plans to meet the woman.

"You're welcome to go rouse him, Anynne, though I am not sure if you will succeed."

Makkros offered while handing Anyanne her drink. "The fool really must have forgotten your meeting."

Anyanne rose her mug and nursing it, thanked Makkros. "That's for sure. The sure audacity he has for letting me down. This makes the third time!"

Makkros shrugged absently. "He is rather late a fair amount, I think. Just the way of it."

Anyanne sighed and took a long draw of her draught this time. Her eyes fluttered as she enjoyed the bitter aftertaste.

"Are you certain it wasn't him, and not his doppelganger?" She asked the bartender half ogre. He considered her question for a slight second then guffawed. "Ha! Would have been a better patron if so!" Makkros ignored the womans inquisitive stare. "Just rest assured he is very much the same Delan we know and love, Anyanne."

"I'd wager you are half correct about that, my stalwart friend.. Especially the "love" part."

Makkros nodded in agreement then concluded the conversation with a nod, sliding a key to her. Then with a finger pointing in the direction of the stairwell leading to the inn rooms. Anyanne took the silver key then slid off her bar stool and made her way upwards. It was turning out to be a difficult night indeed.

Inside the inn room, there slumbered a large man in a four poster bed. Only the best for this man of valor. Loud guttural noises erupted from his mouth as he snored monstrously from his drunken stupor. His solid frame heaving up and down as dreams captured his attention for the moment. Dreams of her.

There she stood in this amber saturated woodland scene. The woman who would be wed to him. The woman who was angrily leaping at him now. Hilt upturned blade first nearing his jugular.

He awoke with a start. Sweat pouring from his forehead and just before the blade hit home. Something stirred in the doorway and he noticed he may still be asleep. Anyanne stood there, wide eyed, but without a weapon visible. She regarded him strangely.

"You really know how to piss me off, you know," she exclaimed after seeing it was indeed Delan.

Delan looked like he had just seen a ghost. A ghost holding a sharp dagger at his throat.


End file.
